


Acheron

by CocytusWhisper



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-14 10:59:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9178612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CocytusWhisper/pseuds/CocytusWhisper
Summary: Taylor Hebert didn't survive being trapped in the locker. Rather than ending up in a hospital with a fragment of a godlike alien granting her power, she was buried in a cemetery. Her heart is still, her body unmoving, her soul cast into the void. So how is she, why is she, searching for someone who cares?





	1. Acheron

**Disclaimer: I do not own** **Worm. It belongs to Wildbow — I'm just playing with it for now.**

**Lethe**

The first thing she noticed was that her surroundings weren't really black.

The second thing she noticed was that her surroundings didn't exist at all.

She screamed as her body began to plummet endlessly into the empty void, a sound almost like the rushing of a river seeming to join her in her desperation. She felt herself being stripped away—thoughts, memories, emotions. Her panic increased — she couldn't forget who she was! She needed _something_ to cling to!

Taylor. Her name.

“I am Taylor!”

The words made up only a single, brief moment of her scream, but she drew strength from them. _She was Taylor._

Taylor had no idea how long she had been falling or why her throat hadn't become raw from the screaming, but after she had found herself her movement was arrested without warning. She hadn't hit anything. She had just… stopped.

YOU HAD A NICE SET OF LUNGS.

The words weren't spoken. They were simply _there_ , as if they had always been there and would always be there. Had the words always been there a minute ago? They must have been.

Taylor found her body rotating to face a slightly darker patch of not-black. It didn't seem to have a defined appearance, moving unsettlingly between small, human-like outlines and impossibly vast shapes that had too many angles to fit in the space it occupied.

“Who are you?” She stammered. “Where am I?”

AH, YES. YOUR KIND ALWAYS FEELS MORE COMFORTABLE CONVERSING WITH ANOTHER ENTITY. MY APOLOGIES.

The next second Taylor's senses deserted her entirely. She was screaming again, she knew she was, but she couldn't hear herself. She couldn't even feel the vibrations in the place where she knew her throat had to be.

An impossible eternity later her sight returned, and with it the rest of the world. She had been right — she was screaming. Her throat was at least a foot to the left of the place she had expected it to be, though.

...And she was no longer alone in the void. There was a girl floating across from her, about her age.

_Do all humans from your world scream so much?_

Taylor swore then and there that she would never complain about her mouth being too wide again. The girl-shaped thing still hadn't _spoken_ , the words still arriving in some impossible fashion, but it had moved its mouth in some bizarre parody of the act of speaking. While the mouth looked perfectly normal when it was closed, it had overtaken most of the thing's face while it 'talked', revealing uneven, jagged black teeth that looked more like the edges of a broken bottle as painted by a blind madman with a brush made of his own hair. Its tongue reminded her of an enormous red worm.

Now that Taylor was more alert to the creature's unnatural nature, more problems jumped out at her. While it looked like a human — she had thought it _was_ human, at a glance — it was more like a sculpture made by someone who had heard humans described once but had no real idea how they should look.

Its eyes were subtly different shades of blue and were uneven in both size and alignment. Only one was focused on Taylor at any given time, with the other looking around the area or even rolling back to stare inside the creature's head. Its hair was a single mass — not individual strands, but a solid block carved to superficially appear as such. Its nose had no nostrils, its ears lacked ear canals, its skin was multi-hued. Its right arm had a long staff in place of a hand — looked almost like it had a hand holding the staff, if you weren't looking for oddities — and its left had a vaguely hand-shaped void, deeper by far than their surroundings.

Taylor tried to find words to express herself, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. The creature's mouth curved into what she imagined was probably supposed to be a frown.

_I have not taken on a_ _mortal_ _shape in some time, but is this truly such a frightening sight?_

Taylor could only nod, trying to forget those teeth. The creature frowned again, and Taylor once more found her senses deserting her.

She was unsurprised to find herself screaming when they came back.

The creature had changed again. Taylor was now facing a perfect copy of herself — no matter how hard she looked, she couldn't see anything but a human girl.

“Is this better?” The creature asked. It was really speech this time — or sounded like it, anyway.

Taylor hesitated, but nodded. As disconcerting as it was to talk to herself, it was still better than the indescribable… thing… that been in front of her before.

“Wha- Who are you?” She asked, wincing at her slip. “Where are we?” Taylor had never heard of a cape remotely like the creature in front of her, if it was a cape at all. Even now that it had taken on a truly human shape, some part of her mind refused to acknowledge it as human.

“I have been called many things,” the creature said, smiling. It was Taylor's smile, but there was something wrong about it — like the body knew how to smile, but the inhabitant didn't. “ _You_ can call me… Hm.” It cocked its head, and Taylor squeezed her eyes shut to block out the sight of her own head twisting just shy of 180 degrees, as if it had been left to dangle after her neck had been snapped.

“Ah, I know. Karen will do for now.” For all that the gesture looked more natural now, there was nothing human left in the smile this time. “As for your other question, what's the last thing you remember?”

Taylor bit her lip as she tried to think. Her memories were hazy, drifting out of her reach whenever she thought to grasp them. She knew her name, obviously. She had thought something about Karen being a 'cape' — but what was that? She pushed on, refusing to forget. She had remembered her name, hadn't she?

“I am Taylor,” she whispered to herself. In that moment, the dam broke and her memories came rushing back. Cooking with Mom. Playing with Emma. A car crash. Growing distant from her father. The betrayal of a sister. And at the end, looming large, a locker.

Taylor collapsed onto the solid-not-solid empty fullness of the void, tears pouring from her eyes.

“I'm dead.”

It wasn't a question.

“You are.” Karen nodded agreeably.

“Karen.” Taylor laughed wetly. “Not very original, are you?”

“And you're not very good at distracting yourself,” the creature rejoined.

Taylor winced. “Is this… it?”

“It?” Karen raised an eyebrow. Taylor didn't bat an eye as it rose above the creature's head — she would take the deity's attempts to put on a veneer of mortality in the spirit they were given.

“Death.” Taylor swallowed. “Is this… it? Am I stuck here forever?”

“Ah.” There was a gravity to the word. “Well, you have proven to be a rather unusual case. Souls aren't supposed to resist the Lethe, you know.” Karen wagged a finger at her.

Taylor's mind pulled up the sound of a rushing river as she tumbled through an abyss. “That was the Lethe?”

“It was indeed. It is rare that a soul can hold onto any memory after experiencing her embrace, you know. She's most put out about the situation.”

The not-air of the void seemed to grow heavier at that pronouncement, and Taylor thought she could hear a faint sound of running water.

“I'm sorry!” She squeaked.

Karen burst out laughing. “Sorry, she says! My, my. You spit in the eye of a god and then you simply apologize? You _are_ an interesting one. Heroes are supposed to be defiant to the end, you know?”

“I didn't know what was going on,” Taylor argued. “And I'm not a hero, anyway.”

The death goddess waved her off. “I'll get over it, don't worry. A change of pace is rather enjoyable every now and then.”

“You'll get over it?” Taylor was sure her confusion showed plainly on her face. “I thought you said Lethe was the one who was upset?”

“She, I, whatever.” Karen smiled secretively at her. “Surely you don't expect borders to be quite so clear-cut here as they are back in your little world of humans? There are no dreamers to separate us.” The smile became predatory, and Taylor shrunk back, feeling like a mouse before a cat. “Or there shouldn't be, at any rate.”

The deity was suddenly next to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Look, Taylor. You weren't supposed to resist the Lethe, but you did. That gives us a few more options than we usually have.”

“What do you mean?” A spark of hope lit in Taylor's chest, though she tried to resist it. There was no point in getting her hopes up — what were the odds that Karen was going to let her return to life?

“Well, you retained your memories, didn't you? That's a no-no — you can't be reborn like that, silly girl.” Karen gently poked Taylor's nose with her index finger, a fond smile on her face.

The expression looked almost normal, Taylor noticed distantly. The god was getting better at using a human face.

“So really, we have two choices here. I could stick you back in the Lethe and hope you get properly cleaned up, but that seems rather boring, don't you think? Not a proper hero's reward at all, oh no.” Karen shook her head. “On the other hand, as irregular as it would be…” Had Taylor just thought that Karen was getting better at human expressions? This smile was the least normal yet. “Well, if you had a strong tie to the living world, I just might leave the door cracked open a little. Who knows what could slip out?”

“A strong tie to the living world?” The hope was a roaring inferno in Taylor's chest.

“A goal of some kind,” Karen purred. “Something worth living for, something towards which you threw your entire being.” She paused, smiling to herself. “Of course, that will would be the only thing sustaining you, you understand? No matter how you slice it, you'll still be dead. The moment you give up on your goal…” She slammed her fist into her palm. “That's it. You're done. And if you were to achieve your goal, you'd need a new one. You understand?”

“I think so,” Taylor muttered, head spinning. A goal that she could dedicate her entire being toward?

“A little wish won't do it, either. Don't think you can get by with the desire to simply see something.” Karen bared her teeth. “Revenge is popular in these situations, you know? Put your murderers in the ground. Easy to dedicate yourself to. Nice for beginners.”

Revenge sounded incredibly tempting, Taylor mused. The chance to get back at the bitches who had killed her…

Her mother's disappointed face swam up in front of her eyes.

No, revenge wouldn't do. Taylor ran her life through her mind, finding herself able to access all of her memories since early childhood with a clarity she had never known in life. A resolve began to form.

“I think I've got it, Karen.” She spoke haltingly, but firmly.

“Think you've got it? That's no good,” the goddess admonished playfully, poking Taylor's nose again. “Nothing but absolute certainty will do.”

“I've got it,” Taylor declared forcefully, glaring into her doppelgänger's eyes.

“Let's hear it, then.” Karen grinned widely.

“I'm going to find someone who loves me and won't _ever_ abandon me.” Taylor's chest was filled with determination, eyes burning with the resolve she felt. “No more Emmas. A best friend, a lover, I don't care — someone who will be loyal to me and choose _me_ first.”

Karen's eyes widened and she doubled over in laughter, her grip on Taylor's shoulder bringing them both to their knees.

“I offer you revenge and you decide to go on a quest for love?” Despite her laughter, the goddess didn't sound out of breath at all. “You do realize how difficult what you're asking would be for a normal living being, let alone someone in your situation?”

“I do.” Taylor remained firm, refusing to let the mockery sway her heart. She would find someone who cared about her as deeply as her mother had. There had to be _someone_.

“Well, I suppose it's your choice.” Karen's eyes were twinkling. “As long as you don't give up, it's not _impossible_ , even for you.” She hauled Taylor back to her feet and fixed her with a hard stare. “It's fine to pick up side goals when I send you back — I'd recommend it, really. Every little bit of willpower that you can put towards the world will help keep you anchored. But never forget the wish that you've got now — you can't replace the big thing until it's complete, or you won't like the consequences.”

“I understand.” Taylor refused to let the apprehension she was feeling show on her face. She could do this.

“Until we meet again.” Karen shoved her and she was falling, falling, falling…

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Karen, now as alone as it ever was, looked down at the swirling sphere in its borrowed hand.

“Really, Taylor Hebert… You were a most interesting human.” The mouth on the human body opened, and the deity swallowed the orb. “Such willpower… And you chose to spend it on a goal like that?” It shook its head. “Well, it really doesn't matter if your remnant succeeds or fails. Either way…”

The body broke apart, returning to formlessness. Unless one had a photographic memory and had carefully studied the void, it would appear exactly as it had before Taylor Hebert had defied the Lethe.

EITHER WAY, YOU WILL DREAM.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Taylor's vision returned. A gravestone stood before her, a simple stone affair.

_Taylor Hebert_

_Beloved Daughter_

She fell to her knees, mind blank as her hand reached out to trace the inscription.

Her mouth opened in a scream when her fingers passed through the stone.


	2. Revenant

**Disclaimer: I do not own Worm. It belongs to Wildbow — I'm just playing with it for now.**

**Revenant**

Taylor's scream went on for some time, but she finally managed to pull herself together and stare at her arm.

_Through_ her arm.

She distantly noticed how strange it was to be able to see the ground behind her semi-transparent skin as another scream ripped its way out of her throat.

Pulling herself together _again_ , Taylor stuck her hand into the gravestone again, proud that she only whimpered as her fingers passed once more through the inscription of her name.

Taylor had to face the facts. She was transparent, intangible, and (from the lack of investigation into her screams) likely inaudible as well.

Taylor was a ghost. And there were no flowers on her grave.

She choked up, not entirely sure why _that_ was the final straw, but no longer able to keep her emotions in. If she had ever wondered whether ghosts could cry, she knew now — they could, though her tears seemed to fade away whenever they dripped off of her body.

Taylor's tears redoubled after she noticed that fact, her attention drawn to her clothing by the path her tears followed. Her clothing was the same as she had worn that horrible day, and the filth from the locker was still caked on it. Was still caked on _her_ , on her arms and legs and _was it on her face_ , she desperately reached up and _yes it was it was on her face._

She couldn't smell it, and couldn't really _feel_ its presence unless she was touching it, _it was weightless and textureless, as if a part of her own flesh_ , but something about the fact that it was _there_ , that even death hadn't allowed her to escape from her bullies, made her _snap_.

Tears pouring down her face, Taylor tore at her clothing, desperate to rid herself of the reminder. She was a ghost, nobody could see her — better naked than covered in a testament to her death.

But the clothing refused to tear.

She attempted to lift the stained shirt from her body.

But she couldn't raise the hem.

She pulled at her jeans, wrestled with the button and the zipper.

But nothing moved.

She tore at her _face_ and her _arms_ , desperate to remove the filth, and when she found no purchase she ripped at her imagined flesh as if to rend it from her bones. _Anything to get it off to get it away to be free from the filth._

But her broken nails were unable to break her flesh.

Taylor threw back her head and screamed again, face and neck and arms stained with pearly tears that dribbled down in rivulets, highlighting the tunnels carved by the bugs that had devoured her flesh as some memory of gravity drew them ever downward.

She collapsed to her knees and stared at her hands, barely noticing that she was hovering off the ground. Her fingernails were a mess, ripped and broken from tearing at the locker door. There was a hole all the way through the upper-left portion of her left palm, and her right hand was entirely missing its ring finger. Both were torn, covered in the unmistakable marks of ravenous bugs.

Time lost its meaning as she was held spellbound by the sight of her corrupted form. She was vaguely aware of the sun rising and of visitors passing her as they walked through the cemetery, but none came near enough for her to truly take notice.

Not until the sun began to set once more, and a man stepped _inside_ of her as he gazed brokenly at her grave, lit by dying orange rays.

All at once, Taylor's world changed. It was as if a sense that she had never been aware of had suddenly awoken, and she found herself assaulted with foreign emotions.

_**REGRET SELF-HATRED DESPAIR FAILURE** _

There was something almost like thought there, too, but Taylor was too overwhelmed by the onslaught of feeling to give it much attention. She managed to throw herself backwards, body exiting the man and removing the flood from her mind.

"God, Taylor…" He sighed, kneeling and laying a small bundle of flowers on her grave. "I'm so sorry. If I had known…"

Taylor's first thought — a man at her grave, those emotions — had been her father, but that wasn't her father's voice.

The spirit of Taylor Hebert watched as Alan Barnes traced her name with his fingers, feeling a stab of envy as she watched his hand make contact with the stone.

"I didn't make it last week because Emma was institutionalized, Taylor. And Sophia..." His face twisted into a mask of rage. "She's in juvie, waiting to be old enough for a transfer to a proper jail. I know. It's too little, too late…"

Emma's father choked up. "I swear to you, if I had known, I'd have done something. My Emma needed help, and I didn't see it. And then… This." He looked exhausted. "I want to say that I can't believe how long it took me to find out her part in this, but I know I'd be lying. I didn't want to see it. Didn't want to believe that my Emma was so broken. I dismissed the clues I saw. I'm so sorry."

Taylor wasn't sure what to feel. Part of her sympathized with the man — she had just been in his head, and knew that his words were genuine. She wanted to be furious that he had ignored what was wrong with Emma—she was his _daughter_!

But with the clarity of memory she had gained since her time in the death-place, Taylor had to admit that she would be a hypocrite if she blamed him for it. She hadn't wanted to believe what Emma was doing, either — even as she suffocated in that hell, a part of her had been hoping, praying, maybe even _believing_ that Emma would throw open the locker and haul her out. That she'd tell her it had all just been a mistake and she didn't mean any of it, that she would promise that they would be best friends forever, that everything would have been _okay_.

If that had happened, Taylor knew she'd have forgiven Emma. Forgiven her for everything that she had done without a second thought.

With that thought in her mind, Taylor tentatively stretched out her hand and laid it on Mr. Barnes' shoulder.

"I forgive you," she whispered, just as his thoughts and feelings began to flow into her.

Was she imagining it, or was there just a burst of _**RELIEF**_?

Alan Barnes hauled himself to his feet and heaved a sigh. "I'd stay longer, but I promised your father I'd spend tonight with him. I've done everything I can, but… I've already told you how hard a time your father has been having. I'm not letting him spend your birthday alone." He took a shuddering breath, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "Happy sixteenth birthday, Taylor. We miss you."

He turned and slowly made his way back down the row of graves, unable to hear the ghostly wail that rent the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much shorter chapter this time — a little less than half the length of the first one, in fact. That said, this felt like the best stopping point for this particular event, so here it ends! We'll be leaving the graveyard and seeing more characters next chapter, don't worry.


	3. Adrift

**Disclaimer: I do not own** **Worm. It belongs to Wildbow — I'm just playing with it for now.**

**Adrift**

_June 12 th, 2011_

It was her _birthday_? Taylor had been shoved into the locker back in January. How could it be _June_?

Her mind dredged up the story of Rip Van Winkle. She hadn't missed nearly as much as he had, but five months was still long enough for a lot to change.

Emma had been institutionalized. Sophia was in juvie.

If Taylor still drew breath, it would have hitched. _Her father._

She found herself flying across the grass, chasing after Alan. Her instincts caused her to dodge around gravestones, slowing her down despite the fact that floating as a ghost seemed to be a much faster method of travel than walking as a human had been. By the time she made it out of the graveyard, Emma's father was getting into his car.

Taylor desperately threw herself through the door of the car, half-sprawling across the interior and picking up on Mr. Barnes' _**DETERMINATION**_ when her hand passed through his thigh. Her momentary relief at having made it into the car was swept away when it lurched into motion and she found it passing through her.

She chased after it as quickly as she could, but found herself unable to keep up. She slowed and stopped as the car disappeared into the distance.

Taylor forced down a scream of frustration and looked around her. She didn't recognize this part of the city. Where _was_ she?

The area was run-down, even for Brockton Bay. The buildings nearby were crumbling and empty, and many of them had the telltale stains of flooding marring their bases. There were no passersby, even though it was only dusk.

...And where were the street signs?

Taylor drifted along aimlessly, taking in her surroundings. It was strange — not every building had the same kind of damage. The signs of flooding _should_ have been present on all of them, right? Taylor had never heard of a flood that only affected buildings in a scattered pattern.

Even stranger was that some of the buildings looked almost new. As she came to an intersection, she found herself facing the construction zone for what appeared to be an apartment of some kind. Across the street was another construction zone — a block of houses seemed to be in the middle of the demolition process, and a sign proudly proclaimed that a new mall was going to be built, part of some national chain.

What had happened here? Investors had been fleeing the Bay for years. Taylor could barely remember a time that the city had hope. But now…

Construction site after construction site greeted her incredulous gaze. Damaged buildings were being removed. Advertisements for stores and apartments and restaurants blurred together.

Was she even in Brockton Bay? Taylor wasn't sure.

Her eyes picked out a splash of color heading down the street toward her, illuminated by the glow of new streetlights. A man in a red costume was casually strolling along, accompanied by a woman in dark grey.

As they got closer Taylor recognized them as Assault and Battery, members of the Protectorate. So she _was_ still in Brockton, then. That mystery hadn't lasted long.

Taylor drifted towards them, hoping that one of the pair might be able to see her. They were heroes, parahumans — surely that had to count for something? Her hopes were dashed when they passed her without a glance.

Battery paused in front of the advertisement for an upcoming jewelry store, though it took Assault a few more steps before he realized his partner wasn't moving. Taylor couldn't help her curiosity — she floated over and tentatively stuck her hand into the heroine's arm.

It was nothing like what she had experienced with Alan Barnes — his emotions had been a chaotic whirlwind, but Battery's were calm. This was just a routine patrol for her. There was, however, a powerful sense of _**WONDER**_ at the changes the city was undergoing and an underlying sense of _**WORRY**_. Taylor resisted diving into the stream of thoughts surrounding the feelings — while she was curious, that was a step too far.

“Something wrong, puppy?”

Battery gave him a half-hearted punch to the shoulder. “Idiot,” she muttered. Her emotions had spiked with _**FOND**_ _ **NESS**_ _ **EXASPERATION**_ _ **LOVE**_ , and Taylor yanked her hand free, feeling like she had intruded on something she shouldn't have.

“Your idiot.” Assault was grinning like a schoolboy.

Battery rolled her eyes. “I'm just having trouble believing that everything's going so well. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Aw, come on.” Assault patted her on the head and she swiped at his hand. “Things don't _need_ to go to hell now, do they? Aren't Endbringers and the Slaughterhouse Nine enough for you?”

Taylor made a choked sound, but neither of the pair reacted. _Endbringers_? The _Slaughterhouse Nine_? _What had happened here?_

“We've been over this.” Battery's voice was tired. “Neither of those were nearly as bad as they should have been. This kind of thing just doesn't happen.”

Assault frowned and pulled her into a tight embrace. Taylor pulled back, glancing behind her. This felt private. She should leave them to it…

But she stayed. What they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, right? They were her only source of information on what had been happening while she was dead, and what they had been saying didn't make any sense. If the city had been attacked by an _Endbringer_ , why was it getting investments like all of these new buildings?

“Hey,” Assault murmured. “Why would you say that? There are still good people in the world, puppy. If the bad guys can win, why can't we?”

“Like you can talk.” The words were harsh, but the tone was defeated.

“Ouch!” If Assault hadn't had his arms around Battery, Taylor imagined the man would be clutching his chest. “I _am_ one of the good guys!”

“Idiot.” Battery shook her head, but she was smiling as she disengaged from his embrace. “We've wasted enough time. Let's keep moving.”

Assault frowned at her again. “Fine, I'll drop it for now. But don't think this is the end of the conversation, missy. We're going to turn that frown upside-down!”

Battery rolled her eyes and continued along what Taylor assumed was their usual patrol route, back the way the new ghost had come.

Taylor's shoulders slumped. If they were ending their conversation she wasn't likely to get any new details about whatever had happened to the Bay, and if she followed them it wouldn't help her find her way home.

She looked around again, trying to match what she was seeing to the idea of an Endbringer attack. The marks of flooding stood out again, their odd pattern making sense this time. If an Endbringer were to attack Brockton Bay, the most likely culprit would be Leviathan. The problem was that even the stained buildings looked mostly intact — shouldn't an Endbringer have done more damage? Battery had said that it wasn't as bad as it should have been, so had Scion saved the city?

That could revitalize it, Taylor supposed. Places where Scion had performed great feats always became popular tourist destinations, and the Church of Scion funneled a lot of money to set up temples and keep the 'holy sites' in good shape. She couldn't think of any other possibility.

The other attack they had mentioned was just as worrying, and the lack of damage from it was striking. The Slaughterhouse Nine were infamous for the particular kinds of devastation that they left in their wake, but none of those were present. There was no sign of the broken glass that would have been produced by Shatterbird's song or of burnt buildings from Burnscar's fire. People were investing in the Bay, so they clearly didn't think that it had been infected by one of Bonesaw's parting gifts.

Surely the Nine wouldn't have been stupid enough to attack while Scion was still in the area? They had survived for so long due to a combination of powerful capes and intelligent decisions. As much as Taylor wanted to believe that Scion had finally dealt with them, she couldn't.

So what had happened?

She drifted along, confused and lost in her thoughts, and was startled when a voice rang out of an alley beside her.

“Who's there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to have access to my writing computer tomorrow since I'll be on a brief trip, so you get a Monday update this week! I should still be able to reply to stuff tomorrow, but posting a chapter isn't going to be possible and I prefer being early to being late.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks to Afish on Spacebattles for beta reading this chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own** **Worm. It belongs to Wildbow — I'm just playing with it for now.**

**Interlude: Execrate**

_April 13 th, 2011_

I stared at the screen of the computer, hand unconsciously gripping the mouse a little more tightly than it could take. A problem I'd never had before.I winced as the broken plastic dug into my hand.

“He's dead.”

I was alone, but I spoke aloud as I tried to make sense of reality. The words tasted wrong in my mouth.

He was dead? That couldn't be right. He had been the strong one, the first to escape.

I reread the article with a furious intensity, fumbling with the keyboard in lieu of the shattered mouse. The story didn't change.

He was dead.

I let out a strangled laugh. How _dare_ he. How _dare_ he let himself be killed by some puffed-up gang boss with delusions of grandeur. How _dare_ he die before I could take my revenge.

And how _dare_ he give me such confusing feelings by dying.

As much as I wanted to believe my anger over his death was _only_ about the lost opportunity to serve as his executioner myself, I couldn't.

After all, I could hear the lamentando strings dancing in my head.

“Damn you, Jean-Paul,” I muttered, refusing to wipe away the moisture pricking at my eyes. If I ignored it, it wasn't there.

Glaring at the screen, Iswiped the useless mouse onto the floor and dove headlong into research.

\- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

I strode into the dining room, all too conscious that I lacked my usual swagger. I had covered the redness around my eyes with makeup, but I couldn't do much about my lack of smile. Every attempt I made had just looked wrong, the girl in the mirror looking on the verge of tears.

Jack raised an eyebrow. I met his gaze, refusing to blink despite the jazzy keys of predatory curiosity dancing inside the man's mind.

My voice _did not shake_ as I spoke. “We're still not completely decided about where to go next, right? I've got a suggestion.”

“Save it,” Shatterbird groused, the bass reverberations of her disgust so powerful it was as good as a physical force. “We've chosen Detroit — that little nobody thinks she can order us around?”

It was a shame the woman hated my family so much. Shatterbird wasn't bad-looking, and would certainly make for better company than Burnscar or Bonesaw.

“Now, now,” Jack cut in. “Let the girl speak. We haven't purchased our tickets yet.”

As usual, he was far more amused by his words than anyone else in the room. Bonesaw was the only one who laughed, her head twirling with an arrhythmic xylophone waltz.

“Brockton Bay.”

“Oho?” The man's gaze grew as sharp as one of his knives, his mind going to work on dissecting my motives with his characteristic staccato chimes.

“I was doing research online. There are candidates for all of us there.”

Mannequin's neck clicked as he cocked his head. Crawler leaned forward in interest. I nodded to each of them in turn.

“For Mannequin, there's Armsmaster. By all accounts a brilliant Tinker. There are rumors that he's working on Endbringer prediction software.”

Mannequin moved back into his previous position, but I knew I had him. The moment I'd mentioned the software, his mind had been overwhelmed by the rapid percussive beat of hate. Were the rumors true? I didn't know. The source was an employee at the local PRT who'd overhead a conversation and gotten so excited that he'd posted it everywhere, so it had more validity than most, but… Predicting the Endbringers? That sounded like a fool's dream.

I left out the part where the Tinker had lost an arm and a leg to the villain called Lung. Panacea had saved him, but he was on forced medical leave for the next few weeks.

“Interesting.” Jack knew that I'd just won myself an ally, too. “And the others?”

“For Crawler, there's Lung. He fought Leviathan in Kyushu, and they say he was able to match it blow for blow.” _The man who killed my brother_ , I didn't say. It was too bad the gang boss was going to have to die — those _muscles_ , mmm!

Crawler's mouths grinned as his brains began the drawn-out crescendo of preparation for a life-or-death struggle. That was two. Jack looked amused.

“Bonesaw.”

The girl smiled brightly at the mention of her name, looking up with eyes far too innocent for the monster she was.

“I'm sure you've heard of-”

The Biotinker's eyes widened with glee, a sickeningly sweet violin capriccio rising in her heart. “Panacea, right? Panacea lives in Brockton Bay!” The girl was quivering in her chair, looking for all the world like she was about to rocket off through the ceiling. “I've always wanted a big sister!” She turned her wide, pleading eyes to Jack, who ruffled her hair fondly as he gave me an appraising look.

…Okay then, three down. I spared a moment of pity for Panacea — from what I had read the girl was already in a tough situation, and having Bonesaw's attention on her certainly wouldn't make it better. Still, the healer was cute in an 'average girl' kind of way, and might not hate me as much as Shatterbird did — especially if I could slip in some changes before recruitment ended.

The scales were balanced now — four against four. Shatterbird would be a tough one (perhaps impossible), as would Burnscar and the Siberian. Jack would be the hardest, aside from Shatterbird.

“Shatterbird.” Better to tackle the bitch now. She'd probably still refuse on principle, of course. “There's a cape called Faultline. She's a mercenary with a pretty strict code. Her power lets her break things.” The smile I gave wasn't _entirely_ fake. This next bit was genuinely cool. “She's toppled buildings on people.”

There was a momentary crest of flute-like interest, but it was simply the start of a Klangfarbenmelodie for the other woman's usual thrumming bass. “Not interested.”

I moved on immediately, hoping that I could sway the next one. The information had been hard to come by, but while speculation on cape identities was _discouraged_ , there were corners of the Internet that were very good at that kind of thing. Those kinds of searches got eyes turned in your direction, but we would be out of here within the day anyway.

“Burnscar. There's a member of Faultline's crew — Labyrinth. I did some reading, and I'm pretty sure she was at the same asylum you were. A girl named Elle.”

A nostalgic nocturne, followed by presto counterpoint protectiveness and dissonant anger. Fuck.

“No.” The word was snarled. If the woman's lighter had been in her hand, there was no doubt that it would have been lit. As it was, Jack had taken it to prevent the house from being at risk, so there was little immediate danger.

“Okay, okay.” I settled the pyrokinetic's emotions back into a gentle cavatina. “It was just an idea.”

How was I supposed to know I'd picked someone the crazy bitch cared about? There hadn't been anything about _that_ in the speculation, just that Labyrinth's passiveness could be disguising the same kind of batshit insanity. I doubted it — Labyrinth was a _child —_ but who knew? It's not like I was an expert on normal children.

Two more. Fuck. I could do this.

“Siberian, you were a hard one, but I think I found a good candidate.” I hoped I had, anyway, but after Burnscar… I spoke quickly, almost tripping over my words. “Bonesaw, you might like this one, too. Vista, a member of the Wards — she's young, but she's _good_. She warps space, and she's being held back by regulations. She wants to be out there fighting, but they just treat her like a kid. I don't think anyone else in the country could give you a better chase.”

More PRT gossip. Parahumans Online tended to get rid of it quickly, but there _were_ other forums, and the Internet had a long memory.

The Siberian gave a shake of her head. Her Master's thoughts were a dismissive monotone drone.

_Fuck._

Jack looked amused, his mind dancing portamento. “So I'm the tiebreaker, eh? Who do you think will interest old Uncle Jack?”

I met his eyes with a confidence that we both knew I didn't have. “A subordinate of Lung's, Oni Lee. He's supposed to be a ruthless killer who fights by detonating clones of himself. He's also good with a knife.”

Jack made a show of thinking about it, but his mind was already set on a shattering cabaletta. I nudged it towards a more agreeable gustoso coda. Even as I acted, I wasn't sure why I was taking the risk — if any of them would notice, it was Jack. Perhaps I had a bit too much to drink when I was psyching myself up.

Jack frowned at me, looking genuinely disappointed, his thoughts smoothly transitioning into an ominous legato. “Really?”

He should have been a schoolteacher, I noted. He had the disappointed voice for it. No student of Jack's would fail to do their homework twice.

The leader of the Slaughterhouse Nine stood up and began to pace. “What happened to the long game? Was this really worth it?”

My heart froze. “You knew?” My voice cracked, the words forced through too-dry lips. I tried to wet them with my tongue, but my mouth wasn't producing any moisture. I was going to need to drink a lot of water later.

“Of course.” The responsive was dismissive, as were his feelings. Completely monotone, like he had never even considered the possibility that I might succeed at my plan. He looked directly at me, then shook his head and strode to the doorway. “We'll go to Brockton Bay.”

My eyes widened in shock, hardly daring to believe his words. His emotions were an elegiac finale.

“After all,” he continued, looking over his shoulder and smiling kindly. “I would hate to be seen as the kind of man who refuses a young girl's last request. Come along, everyone. It's going to be a long trip.” His knife-holding hand carelessly flicked out behind him as he strolled away, and I felt a sharp pain as a line was drawn diagonally across my face, narrowly missing my left eye on its path from my chin to my hairline.

I could only stare after him, body shaking as the other members of the Slaughterhouse filed through the doorway. Bonesaw stopped to tug on my hand, pulling me along.

I followed, mind blank.

\- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

 _May 15_ _th_ _, 2011_

I tried to control my trembling as the city came into sight, the midday sun illuminating it all too well. Jack had borrowed a large moving van from the last town they'd visited, and there was enough space in the back for Crawler and the others. I would have fit, too, but Jack had insisted that I ride in the front with him. Nobody knew who I was, after all. I liked to keep a low profile.

…The large, painful new scar on my face didn't help with that. I resisted the urge to touch the throbbing red line, knowing that would only make hurt more. No amount of makeup could hide it — not after Bonesaw had finished with me. I could find a guy with a fetish for it, I supposed — and there were always whores. I couldn't fight off the feeling that my father would be laughing his ass off if he knew the situation I was in, the bastard.

Jack himself was disguised, though I used the phrase loosely. It wouldn't be hard for someone to recognize him if they were familiar with his appearance — he'd just used temporary dye to color his hair and beard blond and put on a pair of glasses.

“Where do you think we should stay?” He asked conversationally. “This is your vacation, after all.”

I shuddered. Jack waited patiently for an answer, humming to himself his fingers tapped a rhythm on the wheel. It was ever so slightly faster than the adagio in his head, threatening to distract me. He knew that.

“The beach?” I ventured, proud that my voice was almost steady.

“It's been a while since I've stayed in a beach house.” Jack nodded approvingly, turning off of the main road towards the water. “Could you please find a nice family who would be willing to let us rent their home for a few days?”

I closed my eyes and focused. It was difficult to pick out unknowns in a city of this size, but if I limited my search…

“Got one. A family of four, big house from their spacing. It's either an isolated house or the neighbors aren't home right now.”

“Wonderful! Your power is truly impressive, my dear.” His smile was paternal, his eyes predatory, his tone disappointed, his emotions dismissive andante.

I hated him. He knew.

It didn't take long to reach the house. Manipulating the family inside to welcome us in was child's play. I carefully didn't think about the fact that Bonesaw took them into the largest bedroom with her and blanked that part of the house out of my senses as thoroughly as I could.

If I lied to myself hard enough, maybe I wouldn't hear their pain and terror in my nightmares.

Crawler settled himself in the garage for a nap, barely fitting even after he ate the car. While the house was a spacious two-story affair with five bedrooms, the garage was clearly designed to hold only a single moderately-sized vehicle. The Siberian joined him, the striped woman's Master's van parked across the street.

I shuddered as Jack put his hand on my shoulder, stately organ chords of pride filling his mind. “We're going to miss you, dear. You've done great things for this family.”

I closed my eyes, noting that while Mannequin and Burnscar had gone off to pick rooms, Shatterbird had remained. The woman was suffused with a gleeful flute melody. It would have been pretty if it weren't directed at my suffering. A perfect summary of the woman, really.

“Bonesaw, honey!” Jack hadn't raised his voice, but the girl would hear him. She had modified herself so much that she barely qualified as human.

“Yes?” The girl's face was spattered with flecks of blood when she peered around the doorway.

“Could you give our dear heart here her second present?”

The dizzying cacophony of emotions that swept through the Biotinker's mind was headache-inducing, but I didn't attempt to flee as the syringe was injected into my arm. Running would only make it worse.

And then-

I was deaf. I resisted the urge to scream — screaming was what Jack wanted, but-

No, not deaf — I could still hear with my ears. And then-

I could hear their hearts again. What had Bonesaw done? It had been almost like that time the Tinker had disabled my powers, but not quite the same. It had ended quickly, for one thing.

“Would you like to explain, or shall I?” Jack was still smiling.

“I'll do it!” The eager expression on Bonesaw's face would have been cute if she were a normal child. “It's a variant on the parasite I gave you last time! This one will only suppress your ability to _change_ peoples' emotions. But it won't do it all the time! Only sometimes. You won't know when until you try.” The Biotinker was bouncing on her feet, her heart swelling into a beautiful violin concerto. “It's still a lot like the last one, though! If you drink blood you can reduce the odds that it's going to block your power.”

I almost collapsed. It would be better to lose my power entirely than to be unable to trust it.

“I thought there was… More.” Jack was disappointed. “Is that it?”

“Of course not!” Bonesaw looked scandalized. “I made it adaptive, and threw in a couple of prototypes to see how they work together.” The Biotinker wrapped me in a hug. “Isn't it great? You'll be helping me make more improvements for our family!”

I choked back a sob. Prototypes intended for use on the other members of the Nine would probably be intended to have beneficial effects in the end, but I'd _seen_ what happened to people who received early versions of the mad Tinker's upgrades. Contrary to popular belief, Tinkers didn't magically succeed at everything on their first tries.

…And I had never seen Shatterbird happier. Bitch.

The anticipatory strains of violin remaining in the silicakinetic's emotions were worrying. Just what else could be planned for me?

“Have fun in the city.” Jack's expression hadn't changed, his smile still placid as he pushed me to the door. “Your curfew is 10 o'clock. I trust I won't have to ask Siberian to look for you?”

“No, that won't be necessary,” I managed, rolling my tensing right shoulder. My bag felt heavier than ever, tantalizing me with the impossible idea of fleeing.

“Wonderful! I'll see you tonight for your party. Remember — tomorrow, the fun begins. Make the most of your day.”

The door closed. I was tempted to spit on it.

I walked away.

\- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

It had happened in the area called “the Docks”, if the news reports were to be believed. A name more than a description.

I looked around as I slowly walked down the sidewalk. Run-down warehouses and cheap apartments, unique only in that they were so close to the water. Every city had a place like this — most had more than one. I was _very_ familiar with these areas.

Of course, I was also used to having the active application of my power as a defense. I couldn't count on that right now, so I carefully maneuvered around areas where I sensed dangerous emotions. It was fine if a prostitute or two saw me, but I also felt some minds that would ignore my disfigurements in favor of the fact that I was young, female, and undefended. Druggies and gang scum — the kind of trash I had made a habit of ruining in the past.

Being forced to sneak past them was utterly humiliating. Bonesaw's upgrades would give me a fighting chance against one or two, but I couldn't handle a group and they only came in fours and fives. Oh, that building over there had a six-pack. I crossed the road.

If there was one benefit to the lack of attention given to the Docks, it was that repairs were slow in coming. That was why I was now staring at a large patch of road that had clearly been subjected to intense heat, its surface melted and deformed.

Was this where it had happened? I honestly couldn't say. Surely a man like Lung had produced similar damage in many places around the city over the course of his tenure as a gang boss. The news reports hadn't included any pictures or specific directions, simply dismissing the death of a few small-time villains in the poorest part of the city.

It didn't matter whether it was _really_ the place or not. What it symbolized was enough.

The nearest human was in the far side of a building thirty feet away. I knelt, ignoring the feeling of the asphalt digging into my knees, and touched the ruined surface.

When the first drop hit the ground, I didn't bother to resist. Nobody would hear me. Nobody would see me. With my senses, I could be long gone before anyone got close.

So it was fine to cry, right?

Just a little. I could stop whenever I wanted.

It was fine.

\- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

I checked my phone. 5:38. Half an hour gone.

“Damn you,” I whispered half-heartedly. He found ways to waste my time even after death.

I still had four hours to kill. There was no way I would head back early, and no way that I would risk being even a minute late.

What was there to do in this city?

And then the rain began. Cursing, I ducked under the protruding roof of a nearby warehouse. Of all the places to be caught in a storm… The weather forecast had said nothing about this.

I was soaked to the bone, clothes clinging tightly to my skin. The rain hadn't begun as a drizzle, or even a growing cloud cover — one second nothing, the next a torrential downpour.

I looked down at my phone, glad that I had instinctively hunched over it. It still worked.

The weather report still said it should be sunny with a 5% chance of rain.

I hadn't heard of any capes in the area that could create storms. Were the meteorologists here just lazy and unwilling to update the information on the app?

Then the sirens began to wail, and my heart froze. A trembling finger tapped the emergency notification that had popped up.

Endbringer. Leviathan. Directions to shelters for civilians. Directions to a hastily-arranged staging area for capes.

If Armsmaster had really been working on Endbringer prediction software, he obviously hadn't finished it in time to save his own city.

And now I was trapped here.

I cursed as my GPS slowly loaded the way to the nearest shelter. The storm was interfering with the wireless connection.

Four blocks south. That wasn't so bad. Maybe I could make it.

But then I'd be trapped in a shelter with the people from the Docks, the people I'd been avoiding. I wasn't stupid enough to think that an Endbringer attack would prevent them from doing as they pleased. The threat of death might even make them bolder.

I tapped the screen, growling as it sluggishly loaded the next shelter.

Thirteen blocks east. Farther away, probably safer population-wise. But could I survive the _trip_?

I looked down at the report again. Leviathan had hit on the other side of the city, the place where-

The place where the Nine had set up a base. Despite the situation, I dared to hope for a second that Jack had been killed. I had to survive — had to _know_. If Leviathan had managed to kill Jack Slash, that would be all over the news.

I cast out my senses, stretching them to their limits. Crawler stood out as he always did, the joy of battle trumpeting in his emotions. I couldn't sense any of the others, but there were so many unfamiliar minds moving all over that area that I couldn't be _sure_ that meant anything, despite my familiarity with the Nine. Powers that interfered with my precision existed.

If Leviathan had killed Jack Slash and I managed to survive the attack, I would worship the damn thing. I'd never join the Fallen, but if the creature saved me… Jack's emotions had always been distinctive, and I couldn't imagine missing them. I offered up a quick prayer to Leviathan, just in case.

I refocused. Survival was paramount right now. Four blocks or thirteen blocks.

The rain intensified.

I cursed and ran south.

\- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

I shivered in the corner of the shelter, blanket drawn tightly around my body. It was a ratty old thing, barely holding together, but it was all they had. My wet clothes prickled on my skin as they slowly dried — I hoped I wouldn't get a cold from this. Bonesaw's modifications would probably protect me — they had certainly gotten rid of my allergies — but who could say for sure?

If there was one thing I was grateful for, it was how packed the room was. Despite my fears, nobody had given me a second glance, though a trashily-dressed old woman had taken one look at my face and patted my shoulder in elegiac sympathy.

That had stung, but not as much as my failure to make the woman claw her own eyes out.

I stared at my phone and its lack of signal, then started up some shitty phone game I'd downloaded a few weeks back. It was no real RPG, but it would have to do. I wasn't going to risk taking my DS out of my bag here — hell, who knew if it had even survived the rain. I had started taking the precaution of wrapping everything I carried in waterproof packaging after an incident with Burnscar and a fire hose, but Endbringer-caused rain wasn't exactly normal water. It wouldn't surprise me if Leviathan designed the stuff to get past waterproofing, just as an extra little “fuck you”. It's what I'd do, if I were a hydrokinetic Endbringer.

I froze in the middle of selecting my avatar's nose. (Did a phone game really need to give me 59 options for a _nose_? They were all just small variations on a curved line. Leviathan, I couldn't wait until Skyrim came out and I could get some real customization going… If I survived that long, anyway.) Crawler's emotions had disappeared.

That was… Fuck. Leviathan was capable of killing _Crawler_?

And… A soothing piano melody of relief was permeating the area where there had just been the rapid percussive focus and terror of battle against an Endbringer. There was still fear, but… Not like there should have been. Leviathan couldn't have been driven off already, could it?

I looked at the time on my phone. 6:33. The fight hadn't even lasted an hour. That was impossible.

I cast my senses out again, but was unable to find any evidence of continuing battle. Could Bonesaw's parasite be messing with my sensory power? I wouldn't put it past the Biotinker to have slipped something in that would hide the Nine from me or something that would cause me to misread people. That was much more likely than the battle ending this quickly.

I glanced down at my phone. Another emergency notice. The wireless was back.

Leviathan had been driven away.

\- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

The news anchor on my phone replayed the video again. I watched as Crawler's body exploded into countless tiny droplets.

The anchor droned on about Leviathan's apparent microhydrokinesis as the video continued, Eidolon blasting the creature out of the city with a terrifyingly rapid combination of powers. The man was ridiculous — why didn't he do this every time? I remembered hearing about the early battles against the Endbringers, how the hero had performed similar feats, but it had changed over time. Why?

…He couldn't be weakening. I had seen speculation about that online, but dismissed it — was I wrong?

Whatever the case, this time he had triumphed. I'd seen the footage five times now, and it was still hard to believe. Footage from Endbringer fights was rare — those Tinkers that successfully recorded the battles were usually reticent about letting the public see the fights, something about the deaths of heroes being demoralizing.

This time had been different. Everyone was talking about it — a record minimum of damage and a record low number of hero deaths. Only ten, none local. Apparently nobody aside from the Triumvirate had wanted to get near Crawler and Leviathan while they fought — not that they were describing it that way, but the footage was pretty clear.

The bigger news was the complete elimination of the Slaughterhouse Nine. The bodies of every member except the Siberian had been found. The body of the missing famous scientist William Manton had been discovered in a truck across from the building containing the Nine. Thinkers speculated that the Siberian had been a projection and he had been its Master. They were right.

I broke down into laughter, tears streaming down my face as I hit replay again. The woman sitting on the bench next to me got up and walked as far away as she could without leaving the bus stop, her dissonant tune making it clear that she believed herself to be in the present of a madwoman.

The woman wasn't necessarily wrong, I mused. I must have been mad to have joined the Slaughterhouse, must have been mad to have tried to control Jack Slash, must _be_ mad to feel gratitude towards an Endbringer.

The problem was… What did I do now? I was free from the Nine, but Bonesaw's parting gift was likely permanent unless I got help from someone like Panacea, and the odds of _that_ happening without someone figuring out that there had been another member of the Slaughterhouse… Yeah, I wasn't going to risk that.

I had some money — a few thousand dollars that I'd squirreled away in my bag. It wouldn't last long. Would I be able to find a job?

A wave of dizziness hit me. I hadn't eaten a meal in almost a day. I stared blankly at the other woman in the bus stop — the bus wasn't due for another half an hour, but here we were.

My stomach growled. My vision swam. Why did the woman look so appetizing? The old lady was unattractive — not my type at all. Why was this feeling of hunger so familiar?

Ah. Bonesaw's parasite.

I tentatively reached out with my power. My attempts to entice the woman closer failed.

I closed my eyes, then allowed my body to move. Before the woman knew what was happening, her throat was cut and I was lapping up her blood as she gurgled. I tried to block out the wailing symphony in her head.

I knew it was stupid to do this so overtly — I was leaving obvious saliva samples, for Leviathan's sake — but I remembered all too clearly what had happened when I tried to resist the urge last time. With the new parasite, one meant explicitly as a punishment… How much worse would it be?

Sorry lady, you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Welcome to Earth Bet.

I pulled away when my craving subsided and rifled through her purse. $700 in cash, really? She was poorly dressed. Had she been coming back from servicing a rich client or something? I pulled a few rings off of her fingers, and took her earrings. None of them were especially good quality, but _someone_ would pay for them.

Nothing else become apparent when I patted down her body, so I slipped away after wiping my mouth, chin, and neck on her dress. Thankfully I had practice from last time — when I had first needed to kill a tramp for blood, I hadn't had the first clue what I was doing and he had leaked all over my clothing.

Still, this complicated things. I couldn't have much of a legal presence in the city if I was going to be haunting the alleys like a vampire to get my next fix, and the gangs here were… Not my style.

There were the Asians, lead by Lung — I wasn't Asian, and Lung still had to die for what he did to my brother. The Merchants, a bunch of worthless druggies. The Nazis, who would cut off access to half of my dating pool.

Could I make it on my own without a reliable power? I thought about it as I slumped down behind a dumpster in an alley.

Maybe. I felt a tired salaryman enter the edge of my range and commanded him to dance. He did. I commanded him to jump in front of a passing bus. He did, and his emotions quickly faded from my perception. Dead, then. Unconscious people still had a presence.

So. If I kept drinking, I should be okay. I hoped. If I was careful, there was a _lot_ I could do — the emotions of parahumans were subtly different from normal people, so I could evade being seen by any capes as long as I was careful. If nothing else, I had something of a Brute rating from Bonesaw's modifications. I wasn't _helpless_ , and my sensory power was a hell of an advantage.

It wouldn't be a glamorous life, but I could do this. I stood up, determination filling me.

\- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

_June 12 th, 2011_

I cursed the naiveté of a month ago as I vomited blood in an alley. The stretching of my skin pulled on my scar and made it ache more than ever.

The new parasite required me to consume a _lot_ more blood than the original had, and it had quickly become apparent that the human body was not designed for drinking blood. It was always like this a few hours after a 'meal'.

The parasite had been more of a mixed bag than I could have ever believed. The prototypes that Bonesaw had added to it were apparently designed to enhance my body and senses — I was stronger and faster than her previous modifications had made me and all of my senses were far more powerful, but the latter was more of a curse than a blessing.

I could see perfectly in the dark, but without extremely dark sunglasses any significant amount of light was blinding. I could hear a pin drop at thirty feet, but anything nearby was unbearable without earplugs. I could track by scent, but the smells of the city — garbage, exhaust, hobo shit — made me vomit.

What was worse was that all of the parasite's 'benefits' seemed to be in an overdrive for several hours after a feeding. I needed to retreat to a safe place immediately or be overwhelmed. It had already caused several close calls with heroes desperate to find the one who was killing off the city's homeless and poor.

Done vomiting, I collapsed against the wall. My hand landed in the puddle of puke, but I didn't bother moving it. I was filthy anyway.

My clothes were rags and I had only been able to bathe twice in the last month, both times when my power was feeling particularly cooperative. I was eating from _dumpsters_ — if Bonesaw hadn't modified me so thoroughly, I'd probably be dead from who-knows-what by now.

Lung was still alive. I didn't have the courage to go after him when I was this weak and had an unreliable power — he'd just laugh and crush me. I'd periodically tracked him down and attempted to alter his emotions from the edge of my control range, but not once had I succeeded. Bastard.

I had to face the facts — this was the end for me. No companions, no looks, an unreliable Master power and a Brute power that required me to debilitate myself to use it at its fullest. I had money, but couldn't spend it — one look at my appearance would send people running.

That was when I felt it. Out of nowhere, the most powerful symphony of despair I had ever heard blossomed at the entrance to the alley. That was impossible — where had it come from? A Stranger? Why had they dropped their presence masking? Did they know I was here?

I slowly stood up and approached the emotion. I was tired of running. If I had finally been found, I was going to put up one hell of a fight.

My eyes saw nobody. My ears heard nobody. My nose smelled nobody. But that symphony was still there, continuing past me.

I had to know.

“Who's there?”


	5. Cherie

**Thanks to Afish on Spacebattles for beta reading this chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own** **Worm. It belongs to Wildbow — I'm just playing with it for now.**

**Cherie**

Taylor froze, barely daring to hope. “You can see me?” She whispered, staring at the girl in the alley.

Whoever the girl was, she had definitely seen better days. The first thing that leapt out to the ghost's eyes was the jagged scar that lay across her face, red and inflamed. Her face was filthy, her hair matted. Some kind of grimy reddish-brown substance was caked around her mouth and on her chin. Her clothing was no better — ripped and torn, the ruined shirt showing hints of some truly disgusting tattoos. Looking at her, Taylor felt like she had been pretty once — but now she looked as broken as the ghost herself.

She watched as the girl cautiously walked forward, hands outstretched.

“Show yourself!” The girl demanded hoarsely. “I can sense you.”

Taylor's heart sank. So the girl _couldn't_ see or hear her. She turned to leave, but felt an arm enter through her stomach just as the stranger let out a cry of triumph that quickly turned to confusion.

_**ANGER EXHAUSTION FEAR RESIGNATION ELATION SURPRISE** _

Taylor moved quickly, letting the arm slip out of her body. She didn't attempt to leave this time — she just watched. The girl had been able to pinpoint her location — could she really sense her somehow? Was she a Cape? Why would a Cape look so broken-down?

…The girl couldn't be a _Merchant_ , could she?

“What the fuck?” The girl stared at her arm in confusion, then glanced at where Taylor had moved and tried to touch her again. Taylor stayed just out of reach.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Apparently the girl didn't have much patience. “Either kill me or drop the fucking ghost thing and talk to me!”

Taylor _really_ wished she could. Stop being a ghost and talk to her, that was — not kill her! …Then again, if she was going to stop being a ghost to talk to someone, she'd rather it not be a… Merchant. Strange, the things that you stayed picky about in death.

“…What the fuck?” The girl looked taken aback. “No, that's… Really?” She moved more quickly than Taylor had expected, suddenly occupying the same space. “Holy shit,” she breathed. “Are you seriously a ghost?”

_**CONFUSION SHOCK DISBELIEF INTEREST DOUBT DENIAL** _

Taylor once again moved away. The girl didn't try to touch her this time.

“That's so fucking weird.” The girl was staring at her. “You experience my emotions when I'm touching you, don't you? I can hear it, like an echo. Fucking _weird_.”

Her expression changed, her eyes widening. “Ha. Haha. Hahahahaha. An echo of my emotions. Hey, am I imagining you? Have I finally lost it? Ha!” It wasn't laughter. She was saying the word, more and more desperately. She staggered forward, arms reaching to the sky. “Hahaha. I get it. That little psycho made me a vampire, so now I'm imagining a ghost friend.” Tears were leaking from the corners of her wild eyes as she devolved into giggles that eventually madeway for desperate sobs.

Taylor wasn't sure what to do. A vampire? The girl was insane. Was that stuff around her mouth _blood_? She probably _was_ a Merchant, so high on whatever that she honestly believed she was a vampire. The ghost should leave.

But she hesitated. What if she couldn't find anyone else who could perceive her at all? What if something really _had_ happened to this girl to make her think she was some kind of vampire and it _wasn't_ drug-related? And… Taylor couldn't just abandon her when she was crying. Not when Taylor was the reason, however indirectly.

The ghost drifted closer and awkwardly tried to pat the girl's shoulder. The girl's head snapped up to stare at the space that Taylor was occupying. The redness around her eyes and snot dripping from her nose did nothing to help her bedraggled appearance.

“What the shit?” She croaked. “A figment of my imagination is taking pity on me?” She flopped backward onto the pavement. “Fuck my life.”

Taylor was indignant. She was _not_ just some imagined creature! If that's how the girl was going to be, she _would_ just leave.

“Hooooooly shit.” The words were drawn out, the girl looking stunned. “I'm not fucking imagining you, am I? You're pissed that I thought you're not real.”

“Of course I am!” Taylor grumbled, knowing the girl wouldn't hear her but needing the reassurance of her own voice.

The girl somersaulted to her feet. Taylor was impressed — she definitely didn't look like someone who was in any condition to be doing acrobatics, but the movement had been graceful and confident.

“Okay, ghost boy,” the girl began. Taylor's indignation spiked again. “Ghost _girl_ , excuse me.” The girl rolled her eyes. “You're a ghost, does it even fucking matter? Whatever. Introduction time. I'm Cherie, Brockton Bay's local vampire. You obviously can't talk, so here's what we're gonna do. _I'm_ going to list off the alphabet, and _you're_ going to get excited when I list the right letters to spell your name. No, stop wondering how you're going to get excited — you just are, because I'm the only one who can notice you and you want me to know your name, right? Let's get back into the alley first — don't want to be spotted.”

As she followed, Taylor had to admit that Cherie had a point. She _would_ probably end up getting excited without needing to try, though it would be a problem if she got excited after the T and stayed excited.

Cherie rolled her eyes. “Stop doubting me, ghost girl. I'll be able to tell when I get a letter right, _trust me_. I'm practically a mind reader.” She wiggled her fingers. “Okay, let's begin. A.”

Taylor was impressed. Within five minutes, Cherie had figured it out.

“So you're Taylor, huh?” Cherie looked contemplative. “Wasn't there a… One sec.” She pulled out a smartphone and began fiddling with it. In contrast to the rest of the girl's appearance, the phone looked clean and new. “Got it. Taylor Hebert? You were _all over_ the news last week. They had a field day after that girl confessed.”

Taylor's heart leapt.

“Huh. Nasty way to die.” Cherie's voice almost sounded _approving_. “I bet you look awesome. Gross, but awesome. Can't find any after-pics, damn. People are so fucking squeamish.”

What? The ghost was confused.

“Hey, in the movies the ghost always looks like it did when it died, right? I bet you were a _mess_. Great ghost material. Probably not as good as me — I mean, have you _seen_ me? Horror movie is the only style I've got left — but still pretty damn good.”

Taylor looked down at the hole through her hand, at the stump of her finger, at the cuts and bruises that decorated her arms from her struggle against the locker door and the gaping holes in her flesh through which insects had burrowed. She tried not to think about what the rest of her body must look like underneath her clothes, but her treacherous mind conjured up images of organs half-devoured by bugs and infested with maggots. She knew that was ridiculous — there was no way the bugs would have become ghosts with her, right? She tried to ignore the fact that translucent insect-like corpses were visible in the holes in her hand and in the clumps of blood that covered her skin.

…She tried not think about what her _face_ must look like. The blurriness in her left eye seemed to intensify even as she thought about it. The more she tried to push away the idea that her eye was damaged, the harder it became to ignore.

She tried to take a shuddering breath, but discovered that the air didn't want to cooperate.

“Ugh, seriously?” Cherie's eyeroll permeated her voice. “Face it, you're a ghost. The grosser you look the better, right? What can you do? Throw things? Possess people? Fuck with electricity?”

“No, just this,” Taylor muttered despondently as she stuck her hand into Cherie's arm.

_**EXCITEMENT CONFUSION INTEREST** _

“Wait, really?” Cherie looked stunned, and her _**SURPRISE**_ backed that up. “Is that seriously _all_ you can do? Read emotions if you're touching someone?” She shook her head. “There's gotta be more to it than that, right? I mean, you're a _ghost_! Why would you just have a shitty Striker version of part of my power? It's not even _useful_ at Striker range!”

Taylor shrugged uncomfortably before she remembered that the other girl couldn't see her. It's not like she had chosen what kind of powers she was going to have.

“Damn.” Cherie shook her head. “Guess being a ghost's not all it's cracked up to be.” A resigned grin crawled onto her face. “Then again, neither's being a vampire. They look so classy in the movies, heh. Can you _believe_ I still need people food? Both kinds!”

Taylor would have groaned at the pun if she weren't so horrified by the implications. There it was — the girl _did_ drink blood. She wasn't using the word 'vampire' to be dramatic — she _meant_ it.

“You can't seriously be squeamish about my diet.” The tone was disbelieving. “You're a fucking _ghost_.”

“Just because I'm a ghost doesn't mean I lost my morals!” Taylor grumbled, glaring at the so-called 'vampire'.

“Okay, let's back up a step here. You're floating there all angry — lemme guess, you think I _chose_ this.”

Well, yes, Taylor did rather think that. Why else would the girl be doing it?

“Fuck. No. If I had my way, I'd be living it up in a cozy apartment somewhere with wall-to-wall video games and a new hottie every night.” Cherie stared into space with a dreamy smile for a moment before snapping back into focus. “You've heard of Bonesaw, right? Can't fucking imagine that you haven't.”

“Yeah,” Taylor whispered, her mind pulling up gruesome story after gruesome story.

“Yeah, that right there is the horror I usually hear when that name comes up.” Cherie pointed at her emphatically. “Trust me, whatever you're imagining? She was _worse_. I would know — she fucking did this to me.”

Taylor wasn't sure how to respond to that, so she didn't even try. She just waited.

… _Was_ there a proper response to someone telling you that the world's scariest Tinker had done something to them?

“I'm not gonna waste my breath pretending I was some kind of angel. I've cheated, lied, stolen… In the past I _usually_ avoided killing, because that brings down heat like you wouldn't _believe_ , but I won't lie and say I was opposed to it or that I don't have a trail of bodies behind me. If I weren't willing to do that kind of thing, I'd have gone mad by now. Well, mad _der_. Heh.”

If Cherie was trying to convince the ghost to stick with her, she was doing a terrible job of it. Taylor floated back a few inches, seriously considering making a run for it. She ended up staying, morbidly curious about what the girl would say next. It's not like she could be hurt, right?

“But what I am now? That little bitch Bonesaw stuck a parasite in me. I _need_ to drink blood, or I'll end up going berserk. Trust me, that wouldn't be good for anyone.”

Taylor was anything but convinced. Why hadn't Cherie asked the heroes for help? _Panacea_ lived in Brockton Bay. Surely she could handle a parasite, even if it _was_ made by Bonesaw. All that she needed to do was touch you and you were completely healed!

Cherie sighed. “Look, have you found anyone else who can sense you? Anyone?”

Taylor looked at the ground, admitting that the girl had a point.

“Thought not. How about you give me a chance? I'll… Fuck, I'll try to limit myself to Merchants or something, how's that? The city is _better_ with them dead. Just give me a week.” Cherie's eyes darted away as she shifted uncomfortably. “Please.”

Taylor wasn't sure why she was considering the idea — the girl was crazy, and killing people was _always_ wrong, even if they _were_ Merchants. She had to believe that. …Right? She should go.

But what if nobody else in the entire world could see her? Should she really pass up this opportunity without at least trying? What did she have to lose? Was her pride worth the risk?

She stuck her hand into Cherie's arm.

_**FEAR DESPERATION LONELINESS HOPE** _

Cherie laughed bitterly. “It's fucking weird being on the other end of that. Yeah, you got me — I'm lonely. Take it from someone who's spent the last month with zero companionship — it's no way to live. Unlive. Whatever.”

Taylor closed her eyes.

“Okay.” She could do a week. Just one. If Cherie did something horrible, something that Taylor couldn't stand, she'd be right out of there. Even in the worst case, Taylor herself would be fine.

“Thank you,” Cherie whispered. The moisture in her eyes was so faint it could have been a trick of the light.

Despite herself, Taylor smiled. Maybe this would be okay.


	6. Choices

****Thanks to Afish on Spacebattles for beta reading this chapter!** **

**Disclaimer: I do not own** **Worm. It belongs to Wildbow — I'm just playing with it for now.**

**Choices**

_June 13 th, 2011_

Perhaps “okay” hadn't been the right word to use.

Oh, Cherie hadn't really been bad company — they'd just relaxed in the alley, Cherie babbling about whatever came to mind as Taylor did her best to respond through feelings rather than words.

The problem was that Cherie needed to sleep, which she had been doing for the last three hours.

Ghosts didn't sleep, apparently.

They _could_ , however, get bored.

Taylor gloomily reminisced about long nights spent reading under her blanket with a flashlight. Her intangible state meant she probably wouldn't be reading anything any time soon, unless she found a ghost library or something. Could books become ghosts?

…Apparently she wasn't immune to having strange thoughts at five in the morning, either.

Taylor took a tentative look at Cherie. The girl was still sound asleep. She closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath, then opened them again and reached up to her face.

She no longer seemed to have the instinctive aversion to touching her eyes that she had while alive. The finger on her right eye found itself touching a slightly squishy surface.

The finger on her left slipped inside of her skull with no resistance.

Taylor felt tears begin to stream down her face, but made no move to wipe them away.

When Cherie woke up three hours later, Taylor was still crying.

\- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

“So, do you do this weepy thing a lot?”

Taylor glared.

“I mean, you've been dead for a while now. Haven't you gotten the wailing out of your system yet?”

Taylor continued to glare. She had just become a ghost the other day! Didn't she have a right to feel depressed about the ruined state of her body? …What passed for her body, at any rate.

“Huh. You haven't been a ghost the whole time?” Cherie looked taken aback. “Why'd you become one now, then? Did someone do some kind of ritual on your grave or something?”

Taylor really wasn't sure. Maybe it had something to do with her birthday?

“Well, whatever.” Cherie shrugged. “You'll get over it soon enough, I guess.”

The ghost doubted it.

“ _Any_ way, I guess you get to see my daily routine now. Such as it is.” Cherie stood up and stretched. “First thing's first…”

Taylor stared as the girl rummaged through a nearby garbage can.

“Ooo, half of a sandwich, and it's only slightly moldy. Score!”

If Taylor still had a physical body, she was fairly certain she'd be vomiting her guts out at the sight of the… “sandwich” Cherie was holding. If that was “slightly moldy”, Taylor didn't want to know what “really moldy” would look like.

“Oh get over it.” Cherie rolled her eyes. “I've got a hell of an immune system, and I _really_ can't afford to be picky. At least I've _got_ food, and it won't kill me. Not everyone's this lucky.”

Was a blood-drinking murderer really lecturing her about being grateful for what you have? Taylor's good eye twitched.

“Lukh,” Cherie grumbled through a mouthful of “sandwich”. “Yuh've god tuh,” she swallowed, “look on the bright side, or you're never gonna get past this 'oh woe is me' thing you've got going on. Do I _want_ to be out here eating this? Hell no! But I want to be dead even less.”

Taylor recoiled.

“Whoops, bad choice of words. 's true, though. Doubt I'd end up becoming a ghost, seems pretty rare. You're the only one I've met.” Cherie finished the sandwich and went back to digging through the garbage. “Apple core… Nah. Boots… Too big. Oh, sweet, T-shirt. Only a little dirty.”

Taylor was once again treated to the sight of Cherie's lax standards. The shirt the girl was proudly holding up had been probably been white, once. It was now more of a stained gray. She had to concede that it was less torn than Cherie's current shirt, though.

“You _really_ need to stop being so judgmental,” Cherie complained as she slipped off her top.

Taylor spun around, cheeks burning, but also a little queasy. Cherie hadn't been wearing a bra, and she had gotten an eyefull of the complete tattoo. Why had the girl gotten such a hideous thing stamped on herself?

“Seriously? Seriously? I haven't got anything you haven't seen a million times, girl.” Cherie paused and seemed to reconsider. “Nah, guess you wouldn't have seen anything like the tat. Can't blame you for the disgust there — wish _I'd_ never seen it. That immediate embarrassment, though? The fuck's with that?”

“Excuse me if I believe in modesty,” the ghost mumbled. “I was just surprised.”

“Hmmm.” Cherie eyed the space where Taylor was floating, her eyes more level with the ghost's collarbone than her face. “We're gonna have to work on that one. You're gonna see way worse than that out here on the streets, and not just from me. Mostly not from me.”

Taylor didn't like the sound of that.

“Suck it up, ghost girl. 's not just you who's gotta deal with it. In case you missed it, the world's gone to shit. Only the spoiled little rich bitches can get by without dealing with hell — and they break the hardest when you show it to 'em, heh.” Cherie gained a somewhat disturbing smile as she gazed into the sky. “Oh yeah, that was a good day.”

Taylor was uncomfortably reminded that Cherie was _not a good person_. Just a week, she reminded herself. She had to deal with the girl for a week, and she could leave after that.

Cherie had gone back to her trash-sifting. Taylor waited, ignoring the girl's muttering.

“Nothing else that's any good,” Cherie finally sighed. “Not really thirsty yet… Anything you need to do?”

Taylor _wanted_ to see her father, but had no idea how to find him. He'd probably be at work by now — he always headed in early.

“Your dad?” Cherie adopted a thoughtful expression. “Yeah, uh… Let's hold off on that one a little, okay? I could probably track him down, but…” She gestured at herself. “Should probably wait until I get the chance to really clean myself off, and who knows when that'll be.”

Taylor was disappointed, but she could understand where Cherie was coming from. Anybody who took a look at her would call the police if they had half a brain. …So what could they do?

“You're starting to see it, aren't you.” Cherie had a knowing expression. “Really not much I've been able to do, and since I've been all alone…”

And now Taylor was feeling sorry for the murderer. She'd had trouble getting through a single night — Cherie had been on the streets for quite a while, if her words were anything to go by.

“It's not _always_ that bad — sometimes I manage to charge my DS.” Cherie patted her bag fondly. “That's always good for a few hours of fun. Managed to get my hands on a 3DS from this kid who wasn't paying attention the other week too, heh.” She smirked. “Cutting-edge stuff. 3D's shit, though. Like, if it's gonna be a selling point, make it good, you know?”

And just like that, the sympathy was gone. Cherie really knew how to ruin a mood. Stealing from _children_?

“Hey.” Cherie held up her hands defensively. “He was a little shit, all right? You should have seen him. Spoiled little bastard was screaming because mommy wouldn't buy him the newest model of his smartphone. He totally deserved it.”

Taylor really wished she could say that she disagreed, but in truth… Well, she was… She was _jealous_.

Even if the actions were wrong, Cherie did them confidently. She didn't doubt herself, didn't second-guess every little thing she did. What she wouldn't give to be able to act like that, to be so… Strong. But she was just Taylor, weak little Taylor — and now she was a ghost, and had less power than ever. She'd never taken what she wanted while she was alive, and _couldn't_ now that she was dead.

… _“Taken what she wanted”_? Taylor felt ill as a realization struck her. That's what her bullies had been doing, wasn't it? They wanted to see her suffering, so they made her suffer. They wanted better grades, so they took hers by stealing her homework. They wanted her out of the way, so they put her in a locker and killed her.

 _And she had just wished she was like that._ _Had just been jealous of someone for being like that._

Taylor clutched her arms to her stomach, barely noticing the way that one hand couldn't find an elbow to hold ( _filing it away in her head to freak out about later, when she wasn't already in the middle of a breakdown_ ). She heaved, but of course nothing came out save for a lone spectral maggot.

“Hey, you okay?” Cherie sounded concerned. “You just went all over the place, there. From jealousy to power fantasy to disgust in, like, a second and a half.”

Taylor weakly tried to glare at her, but couldn't muster the willpower.

Cherie sighed. When she spoke next, her tone was gentle. “It's… About your bullies, isn't it. The associations you've got going on there are definitely tied to that girl who got stuck in the loony bin.”

The ghost's shoulders drooped.

“Yeah, thought so. You wanted to be like 'em for a second before you realized that's what it was, huh? Wanted to be like _me_.”

Taylor wasn't sure whether it made it better or worse that Cherie was aware of the fact that her actions were those of a bully. She'd normally say worse without a moment of hesitation, but her head was pounding and she couldn't think. If it was worse, what did it mean that she still longed for that kind of confidence despite having come to that realization herself?

She'd desired it while she was alive, but never had the courage. And back then, she hadn't even realized the consequences. Hadn't realized exactly what it was that she had wanted so desperately.

Cherie gave her a pitying smile. “It's okay, you know? No one's perfect. Like, closest I ever got was when we passed by New York and I got a glimpse of Legend. Dude's a real hero, but he's still not _perfect_. Everyone wants to do shitty things sometimes, you know? And…” She hesitated. “Look, I'm… My family's fucked up, and I'm not great at this empathy thing. Not great at the morality thing, either. Shocker, right? And, well… Even if you want to do it, 's not like you _have_ to. One thing I've learned from having this power? It's what you _do_ that counts. Everyone has a bully in 'em somewhere, but some of those with the loudest hate do the most good, all because they want to resist their own desires for some reason. Hell, I've seen lots of heroes save villains that they'd rather let die, _knowing_ that it would end up causing them more problems later.”

Taylor met Cherie's eyes. They were hard, but she found herself able to hold the one-sided gaze. Was it really fine? Fine that her reason for holding back was that she clung to the morality her mother had given her? Fine that she didn't know if that was _right_?

“You can fucking embrace your desires — you're a ghost now, what the fuck do mortal laws mean to you? You can cling to your morality and let it run your actions — why the hell not? You did it in life, why not do it now? Or you can keep freaking the _fuck_ out about the fact that you're human and never do anything.” Cherie huffed. “And… There. I've given you way too many pep talks already, it's fucking ridiculous. More in one morning than I've given in years! No more of that. I have a reputation as a heartless bitch to maintain, thank you very much.”

As strange as it was, Taylor felt a little better. If an emotion-reader said that even heroes had these kinds of feelings, it was probably true. That meant… That meant she wasn't broken, that she could still be a good person. She just had to make sure she did the right thing, even if she didn't want to. How hard could it be?

“Well, not the choice I'd been hoping you'd make.” Cherie pursed her lips. “But I guess it'll do.”

Taylor rolled her eye.


	7. Loss

**Thanks as always to Afish on Spacebattles for beta-reading the chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own** **Worm. It belongs to Wildbow — I'm just playing with it for now.**

**Loss**

“Okay, so.” Cherie was sitting cross-legged on a box she'd found behind a dumpster. “You're probably wondering what else I do, right? Can't dig through dumpsters _all_ day.”

This was true, Taylor acknowledged. She _was_ curious.

“Right. Most of the time my day goes like this: dumpster diving in the morning, grab a drink after that, and then try and see if my active power feels like cooperating. If I'm lucky, I can get a shower with that.”

Taylor wasn't exactly sure what Cherie's “active power” was, let alone why it wouldn't work. From what she'd said before, she had some kind of passive emotion-sensing.

“Oh, right. I'm a Master.” Cherie grinned. “When my power is working, I can control the emotions of anyone within a few blocks and make 'em do whatever I want. Neat, huh? It doesn't always work these days because of what that bitch Bonesaw did to me, though.” Her grin became a scowl. “Fails more often than not, especially when I really want it.”

Taylor winced, not sure whether she was more disgusted by Cherie's power or the reminder that Bonesaw had ruined the girl's life. Masters were _terrifying_ , and Cherie's power sounded strong. Was it wrong to wonder if Bonesaw had done the world a favor by disabling it?

Cherie glared at her. “Hey, I'm not _that_ bad. I wouldn't have destroyed the world or anything.”

Taylor tried to send apologetic thoughts, but she wasn't sure if she genuinely felt it enough for Cherie to notice.

The other girl sighed. “I guess I get it, though. You were a normie before you died, right? Someone like me'd be a nightmare for you if I decided to fuck you over, heh. Natural to be scared, I s'pose.”

Taylor nodded vigorously. Of course it was! It was the same exact wave of horror that had come over her when she had first heard of Heartbreaker — only learning that the man needed line of sight had calmed her down from believing a madman in Canada could be ruling the world, and it sounded like the girl in front of her was the same _at range_.

If someone like Cherie could be sipping coffee in a shop blocks away, managing how she reacted to everything… What was the point? How could you know your life was _yours_? She was thrown back to conversations she'd had with her mother years ago.

Capes like Lung were scary because you couldn't do anything if they decided to kill you, but a cape like Cherie was infinitely more frightening. You couldn't do anything as they _lived_ for you.

Could Cherie control _Taylor's_ feelings? …No, surely not. The girl said her active power wasn't working right, and if she were using it on Taylor, would Taylor even be able to wonder like this? Probably not.

“Nah, you don't have to worry about me controlling you.” Cherie waved a hand dismissively. “I tried, o' course. Power even seemed to be responsive for once, but it just… Slipped off of you. I can sense you, but that's it.”

That was a relief… If it was true. What if Cherie was lying to make her feel more secure?

If Taylor kept going in circles like this, she'd never get anywhere. For now… For now she would trust Cherie. She had to.

She had no one else.

Cherie winced, an apprehensive look crawling onto her face. “I, uh… Need to get a drink.”

Taylor wasn't sure why that was making Cherie nervous. She could overlook the girl stealing a soda or something like that. Unless…

Oh. She meant… Right. Taylor had almost forgotten.

“Yeah.” Cherie smiled at her weakly. “So… You should… Probably come watch. Gonna have to get used to it now, if you're gonna stick around. If you can't handle it…”

Taylor nodded.

“Don't worry, I'll make sure to use a Merchant,” Cherie promised, the words tripping over themselves as they left her mouth. “I'm going to try to make this as easy on you as I can, I swear. I'll even pick a dealer, how's that sound? The city's better off with those dead.”

Taylor admitted to herself that she'd had similar thoughts in the past, but she hadn't meant that drug pushers should be fed to vampires. That seemed a little… Extreme.

Cherie had closed her eyes, a look of concentration on her face. “Got one,” she finally murmured. “Not that far, either… Let me plot a course.” She pulled out her phone and fiddled with it.

Taylor drifted over to see what she was doing. Cherie had pulled up a map of Brockton Bay and centered it on what Taylor assumed was their current location.

“Okay, got it.” Cherie stood up. “Follow me.”

\- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

Taylor was impressed. Cherie had done her work well — they hadn't passed a single person on their way. A sensory power like that was insane — no wonder she hadn't been caught yet.

The girl's smirk made it obvious that she was aware of Taylor's thoughts.

They were hidden behind yet another dumpster, observing Cherie's apparent target. It was a woman, and Taylor couldn't really tell how old she was. Her face was dirty and lined, her hair unwashed, her clothing torn… Even more of a mess than Cherie. Was this really a drug dealer?

Cherie pointed, and Taylor's gaze followed her finger. A row of needles, a small box. Surely a dealer wouldn't keep their product in the open? A look at the woman's unfocused gaze told Taylor she probably shouldn't be expecting any kind of smart decisions.

“Small-time dealer, not one of the big ones,” Cherie whispered. “Someone that can disappear without the Merchants going on a hunt — they're not hard to avoid, honestly, but I'd rather not create that kind of situation in the first place.”

Taylor nodded. She could understand that. But… She looked at the woman again. Was someone so helpless really worthy of this kind of death? How effective could she be as a dealer?

“She's probably not that great at what she does,” Cherie admitted. “But she's still playing into the system, and the Merchants couldn't operate without dozens just like her. Take out their big dealers and they only care because they actually know their names — the gaps they'd leave would be filled by a handful of less-effective shits like her, drafted from the ranks.”

That made more sense than Taylor was entirely comfortable with. She had always thought that the reason gangs like the Merchants had managed to hang on was because the Protectorate and the police weren't catching the important members, but what if that was because there _were_ no truly important members aside from the capes at the top?

“Well, here goes,” Cherie sighed. She closed her eyes and _moved_. Taylor watched in awe as the girl crossed the thirty-foot distance in two seconds — her legs had tensed oddly before she began to move, not like any runner Taylor had seen before — and slit the Merchant's throat with a knife before the woman had reacted to her presence. Her gurgles were muffled by Cherie's hand.

Taylor drifted closer, feeling oddly distant from the scene. Cherie was suckling on the gash she had created, eyes still shut, a look of revulsion on her face. The ghost reached out a hand — _**DISGUST**_.

That actually comforted Taylor — Cherie genuinely didn't enjoy this. But…

The ghost stared at the glassy eyes of the Merchant. Her gaze trailed down to the blood that dribbled down from the cut, away from Cherie's mouth.

Why didn't _she_ feel disgust?


	8. Remnant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this long author's note right here at the beginning, but… I feel like I owe you all some kind of explanation for the delay.
> 
> I know that I mentioned in my chapter one author's note for this story that I had begun it on paper while stuck in a hospital. That's because… I've got some pretty serious health things, and I'd really rather not get into them (this isn't even really the place for that), but basically I'd been in and out of hospitals since my last post (I haven't been in a hospital for about two and a half months at this point, though, so that's nice, and I'm starting to get some will to live back) and just had… no time or energy for anything at all.
> 
> To top it all off, at some point during the whole mess my computer died and took everything with it, so that was… fun to discover.
> 
> I've recompleted my outline for this story, and I'm going to try to get back on track with updating it, but I'm not going to make any promises about speed or days or anything because I just don't know what my situation is going to be like on any given day. I'm really sorry, but I promise I'm going to do my best.
> 
> What does this mean for my other stories? Bonds isn't abandoned, though it'll probably be some time before I get back to it because I'll need to replay the game up to the point where I was in order to continue it due to the way that I was handling writing that, and the motivation to do that is kinda weighed down by the fact that I was about forty chapters ahead in terms of buffer. Acheron's buffer was 'only' sixteen chapters and I still had to deal with a lot of demotivation in terms of returning to it.
> 
> Bloom is still Bloom — if and when I write some more for it, that'll go up. No change.
> 
> As for other projects, I did do some writing when I was in the hospital, or I'd have gone insane — one of my friends was kind enough to keep bringing in my PS4 for me so that I could play P5. I have some pretty mixed feelings about that game, but I have a handwritten manuscript for a very long (by my standards, at least), almost entirely complete fic for that. I'll need to type that stuff up and edit it, since a lot of it was written on painkillers and I'm sure it's a mess. I'll probably start posting that up at some point in the next few weeks, maybe a chapter every few days or something. It really depends.
> 
> Anyway… Sorry again for disappearing, and sorry for an author's note that's nearly as long as this (tiny) chapter is. I just… needed to get something out for this or I'd never build back up the motivation to continue. Half of why it's taken me so long to do anything is the fact that I just feel like I've let down anyone who enjoyed the story by not being able to keep posting it regularly.
> 
> I can't promise that I won't disappear into the hospital again, and I hate that, but I will try to set it up so that one of my friends will let you all know if that happens. I'm orry.

**Disclaimer: I do not own** **Worm. It belongs to Wildbow — I'm just playing with it for now.** **Also, this chapter is unbetaed, and any errors are totally on me.**

**Remnant**

“You okay over there?”

Taylor was too busy freaking out over the fact that she hadn't freaked out to even try to respond — not that it would have mattered.

“Those are some, uh… _Really_ complicated feelings you've got going on.” Cherie wandered over and stared at me. “Doesn't seem like you're pissed at me, though, so that's good.”

The ghost glared.

“Whoops, spoke too soon.” Cherie flashed a smile. “But that means you're really not pissed about the blood-drinking shit, huh. Why not?”

“I wish I knew,” Taylor moaned.

“And you don't know. That's… Great, really great.” The vampire looked uncomfortable. “You're not, uh, discovering your inner serial killer or anything, right? You don't feel crazy enough for that, but I should probably ch- Oh, yeah, no.” She glanced around. “We need to get out of here. Nobody's headed this way, but getting complacent and sticking around? That's how you get caught. We can talk when we find another alley.”

Taylor could only follow.

\- * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * - * -

“So. Seriously, what's up?”

Cherie was sprawled across a worn-down couch abandoned behind a warehouse. It was full of holes that had no doubt been nibbled by rats and bugs, and patches of mildew dotted the surface. Taylor wasn't sure if she envied the girl's ability to ignore the filth surrounding her or pitied it.

“You sure get distracted easily, huh? Were you always like that, or is your brain just rotting?”

Taylor froze. Cherie's grin indicated a joke, but… What if that were _true_? Was it possible that she was losing parts of herself as she remained a ghost?

“Whoa, calm down there. It's zombies that have rotting brains, ghost girl.” Cherie rolled her eyes. “Seriously, the _point_ of a ghost is that it's a bundle of memories wrapped in a sheet. Haven't you seen any horror movies?”

Truth be told, Taylor _hadn't_ seen all that many horror movies, and most of the ones she'd seen hadn't featured ghosts. She also wasn't sure how useful they were when it came to the dealing with the actual reality of ghosts.

“And there you go again.” Cherie flipped around to perch on her toes. Her brow was furrowed. “You're seriously scattered. Do you even remember what I wanted to talk about?”

There was something Cherie had wanted to talk about?

_The blood drinking._

Taylor felt sick. _How had she forgotten?_

“Oh, wow.” Cherie's eyes were wide. “Okay. Uh.” She ran her hand through her hair. “Do you remember when you woke up as a ghost?”

Taylor nodded slowly. It had been two days ago, right?

“Okay, good. So. How much do you remember between that point and now?”

She had woken up at her grave, and… The ghost strained her memory. There had been… someone? …a man? Her father? She desperately tried to remember.

Nothing.

“Shit,” Cherie hissed. “Okay, that… that ain't good at all.” She shook her head. “You remember who I am, right?”

Taylor was able to nod immediately for that one. She was Cherie, a vampire with mind-control powers.

“Uh… close enough.” The vampire winced. “So… why do you remember that, then?” She shook her head again. “Nah, guess you wouldn't know, huh?” She threw her head back and let out a sigh. “Damn, this sucks. It's like you've got some weirdass anterograde amnesia going on.”

Taylor was a little surprised Cherie knew that word.

“I'm going to ignore that, 'cause I'm more interested in why you're not scared by the idea.”

…She wasn't scared?

_She wasn't scared._

“…Starting to wonder if I'm not the lucky one after all.” Cherie gnawed on her lip. “Bein' a ghost fucks you up, huh?”

Taylor couldn't disagree.

“…Okay, tell you what. I'll try to put a priority on gettin' cleaned up.” Cherie looked pained. “Maybe we can figure out something if you get to see your Dad again, like you wanted to. But, uh… Seriously, can't make any promises on how long it's gonna take me. I'll just… try harder, for all the nothin' that's gonna do. Sound good?”

Taylor was oddly touched. Maybe Cherie wasn't so bad, after all.

…But why would she be bad in the first place?

The ghost couldn't remember.


End file.
